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Monthly Archives: August 2016

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we take pets pretty seriously (we also take drugs pretty seriously, and pets are part of the reason). Heed the timeless wisdom of Dan "The Professor" Fiorella. Also feel free to click on the Amazon link below, which shows you how to purchase a copy of Dan's latest humor book, "Novel Concept."

This course is designed to get you through the puppy and kitten months and help you make your fur baby a productive member of society. From feeding and exercise, to picking out the right obedience school, we lay out the full program. As so many new mothers and fathers are aware, there are a myriad of courses to take before you have or adopt a child. But for pet parents, there are none! Until now!

Syllabus includes:

Needs by Breeds: Here we will review the various bathing techniques for each breed of animal, from shaggy dogs to hairless cats. We will teach how to properly fit collars and harnesses. There will be a study of the many diet options available these days. We will also look at proper play toys and shelters. And demonstrate that what you are spending on them isn’t enough. Spoiler alert! We’re going to spoil them!

How to Adapt for your Adoption: There will be sleepless nights, carpet staining, vomit and chewed shoes, but first we prepare our pet parents for the unending prejudice and pet-ism you will face when you bring your newborn home. People will say things like, “You’re a pet owner, not a ‘Pet Parent’,” based on the ridiculous claims of biology or DNA. I mean, sure, it’s not like he’ll be going to college, getting a job or starting a family, but neither did my brother-in-law and yet he gets to collect government checks and live in my basement! Unlike my poor beagle with Tourette’s syndrome. I say to you, if corporations can be people, your pet can be your child!

Socialization: We will teach you how to properly socialize your pet through training and play activities. It’s very important not to leave a dog alone all the time, even though you can because dogs are just that smart. Try that with your three-year-old and see how quickly a representative from Children’s Services appears. Trust me on that. Socialization is as simple as walking your dog. And I mean you walking him, not hiring some random dog walker who is in fact an out-of-work “actor” who will probably steal your dog’s kibble and get him hooked on heroin. We emphasize walking your dog to meet other dogs, but boy, wouldn’t it be easier to meet other dogs if you didn’t have to deal with the goon at the other end of the leash?

Care and Cleaning-Up: Leashes and restraints will be discussed. There will be “hands-on” interaction with various approved “pooper scoopers.” Also, why won’t the Pampers Company make a pet diaper with a tail hole so I don’t have to cut my own? They refuse to respond to my letters, e-mails, tweets and picket signs, despite me pointing out all the advantages of such a product. You know, in New York City they revoked the public urination ban. Really! But should my ferret poop in Central Park, the SWAT team gets deployed. We need to end this defecation shaming! And another thing: I’ve seen people eat out of a dumpster, but I’m the bad guy just because my dog eats out of my neighbor’s garbage or drinks out of the toilet down at the YMCA? Just because your kid doesn’t hump strangers’ legs, you get to judge me? Ha! Which reminds me, pet parents should carry around a lot of tissues.

Demanding Equal Rights for Pets: We will look into the legal ramifications of having a pet in today’s society. We will study how society discriminates against pets. For example, when some person brings their kid to the park and lets him run wild, everyone stands there and says “How cute,” but if I let my pit bull off the leash the cops are called. How is this fair? Have you seen that kid? He’s a monster. I’ve seen him pee on the jungle gym! Or what about the fact that I’m forced to neuter my dog, while that brat down the block is allowed to procreate at will? Great, right? Because the world needs another mouth-breather manning the drive-thru window at Wendy’s that still won’t serve my cats despite the fact that they HAVE COUPONS! We will study and discuss these topics at length. Such length.

Also planned: “Bring Your Pet to Class” events and field trips to my apartment so you can meet my menagerie. There will be an additional $25 fee to cover the expense of lint brushes and iodine.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, the world's foremost authority for interpreting the U.S. Constitution. Well, after Peewee Herman, anyway. Listen to the sagacious ponderings of our good friend Bruce Harris.

I’m exercising my First Amendment right to comment on the Third Amendment. The Third Amendment, the Rodney Dangerfield of amendments, gets no respect. For example, at last count, the Second Amendment had 11,461 Facebook “likes” while the Third Amendment had a whopping 210. Stifle your yawns. The third isn’t some milquetoast amendment, despite its never having been the primary basis of a Supreme Court decision (the Supreme Court is overrated).

Okay lazy people, you don’t have to reduce your screen and search the web. The Third Amendment…

Places restrictions on the quartering of soldiers in private homes without the owner’s consent, prohibiting it during peacetime.

The Third Amendment has caused a rift in my home. I live in a house divided. My wife is a huge supporter. Me, not so much.

I’m already quartering a know-it-all college-degreed millennial in a modest-sized home at the moment. Why wouldn’t I open my doors to a military man or woman as well? Heck, they know how to take orders a lot better than my kid, and unlike my son they are in excellent physical shape. Besides, the lawn needs mowing. The house could use a fresh coat of paint. There’s snow in winter that needs to be shoveled, and the vinyl siding could stand a good power washing. I’d be more than happy to have the help around here. When is the last time I’ve seen anyone dusting?

There is an extra bedroom. My son needs a legitimate role model, someone who wakes up prior to 11:30 a.m. and doesn’t think he (or she) should become a four-star general within two weeks of enlisting. Seems like a win-win.

What was James Madison thinking when he penned the Third Amendment? It was not about the economy, because the amendment limits a golden opportunity. I guess Madison never had a brother-in-law with a real estate license. Think of the economic boom once the ill-advised Third Amendment is repealed. Realtor listings vying to place soldiers in residential homes might look like this:

New listing: move-in condition, bedroom with large closet comfortably accommodates four pairs of combat boots (with room for expansion to house a fifth pair), good neighborhood with lots of flags, Memorial Day parade in town, public transportation to VA Hospital. Framed portrait of President Dwight D. Eisenhower (in uniform) hangs over bed. Canteens provided.

Even Airbnb hosts could get into the act:

Spacious room with camouflage wallpaper and sonar detectors on roof available for immediate occupancy to any military man or woman. Hat stand in hall holds up to six helmets. Rifle racks. Fully stocked library with comprehensive war history reference books and biographies of generals from Grant to Petraeus. Come sing and dance to The Village People’s “In the Navy” with us every Wednesday night.

And lest we forget the good old-fashioned personal ad:

Patriotic family of four (MFMF) seeks M or F soldier for multi-year-relationship. Peace or wartime. Ceasefires included. Father went through ROTC in college. Son is anti-war, but he knows so little. Daughter is…never mind. Extensive kitchen serving Meal, Ready-to-Eat (MRE) field rations daily. Seeking all branches of the military, Marines, Army, Navy, Air Force and Coast Guard. Merchant Marines inquire first.

On the other hand, the last thing my wife wants is another millennial, military or not, residing under our roof. She believes in the Third Amendment and is very supportive of our troops. She just doesn’t want or need any of them living in the same house, eating our food, making a mess and creating dirty laundry. My wife argues, “If a man or woman is mature enough to serve in the armed forces, shouldn’t he/she be mature enough to rent an apartment and live on his/her own?”

My wife also worries about the definition of “peacetime.” Must be that “men are from Mars, women are from Venus” thing. She asserts that I’m perpetually at war with the cable company. Does that count? What about inner peace? Peace of mind? She claims that Madison had deliberately left things vague. My head is spinning.

As stated, I’m against restrictions on the quartering of soldiers in private homes. I freely give consent. Yet, my wife has me thinking: did Madison mean quartering (as in lodging) or quartering (as in drawing and)? And if he meant quartering (as in drawing and), were restrictions lifted if a homeowner chose to quarter (as in draw and) a soldier in a public forum as opposed to his/her private home? Would children be allowed to watch? Is an ongoing war a requisite to quarter (as in draw and) a soldier in public?

Maybe the best thing to do is to combine the aforementioned self-proclaimed winner of the Constitutional Amendment Popularity “Likes” Contest Second Amendment with that of the oft-forgotten third. I’d welcome arms-bearing soldiers quartering in my home. We’d be the safest family on the block! No one would be dumb enough to break into and rob this fortress. Yet, my wife thinks the opposite. “With so many weapons and so many people in close quarters, something bad is bound to happen,” she says. Again. Mars. Venus.

The Third Amendment is simple in its complexity. The more I think about it…if my millennial good-for-nothing son enlisted, he wouldn’t be allowed back in my home, or anyone else’s home for that matter. He’d have to earn his own keep. I’m doing a 180 on the Third Amendment. Mr. Madison, you are a genius!

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are celebrating the second half of a monumental literary event known as Michael Fowler Fortnight -- two weeks of one of our favorite humorists. This week Mr. Fowler takes on an amazing new development in senior care, or possibly a new form of elder abuse, depending on your view of England and those who love her. When you've finished perusing his latest laugh riot, be sure to check our blogroll on the right for a link to his book, God Made the Animals.

You’re worried about your dad. He’s at home — your home until other arrangements can be made — and some days he seems lost and confused, often turning the stove on right before he locks himself out of the house. On top of that, when asked whether the English or the Germans have the superior music culture, your dad’s response is listless and not very pro-English. What to do?

We at Visiting Anglophiles will have a knowledgeable caregiver by your dad’s side within 48 hours to assess his health concerns, ensure his home is senior-proof, and impress upon him that, song-by-song, England’s Rolling Stones outperform Germany’s Scorpions even if Klaus Meine does rock.

Betty, age 87, can comb her hair, prepare lunch, and even bathe herself. But the native Kentuckian doesn’t always pay close attention to the doings of the British Royal Family. The fashion sense of Princess Kate is a muddle to her, and the climatological insights of Prince Charles go right over her head. This can be embarrassing when she has company over for high tea, and to make matters worse, she calls digestives “cookies.”

Our Visiting Anglophile will administer a dementia test to Betty, asking her to repeat three common words from memory, such as “loo,” “peckish” and “Brexit.” Then Betty will draw the face of a clock with the hands at 3. She receives extra points toward lucidity if she draws Big Ben, the clock tower built in London in 1859 and today a prominent symbol of the great nation of England.

Why a Visiting Anglophile?

You recognize that the English do everything best, and that a Visiting Anglophile is like a Supernanny for geriatrics. Under the tutelage of a Visiting Anglophile, your aging parent or relative will acquire the look and even sound of an English peer, while you stand in the background happy as a king. Please note that we are not that other elder care agency with a similar sounding name, Visiting Angels. We are Anglophiles, not angels. Angels may care about everybody, but we Anglophiles care about the English and enforcing a strictly English way of life — always in your elder’s best interests, of course.

Meet One of Our Anglophiles

Samantha, born in England 57 years ago and the proud possessor of an English peaches-and-cream complexion, is well up on both Medicare billing and English pub fare. Does your aged mother prefer a light breakfast? Not anymore, as Samantha will introduce her to the “fry-up,” a series of hearty meats that the English adore for their first meal of the day. Does your dear mother like a foaming glass of cold beer with dinner? She’ll soon prefer a nearly noncarbonated pint of rather warm bitter, which is Samantha’s favorite as well. Mom, in her unenlightened phase, may fear the bitter was drained from her goldfish aquarium, but will find that it tastes much better and is eventually habit-forming once she adjusts to that corrosive aftertaste.

A Word about Falling

What many elderly and their families fear most, not without reason, is a fall, after which the victim may lie helplessly in pain until discovered. Statistics show that fully half of American citizens over the age of 75 will suffer a painful fall in their lives. But if you’re concerned that something like that could happen to your elderly parent, you may be reassured to know that the wonderful BBC television series Downton Abbey, set in Edwardian England, is now shown throughout the United States on local stations. Actress Dame Maggie Smith takes a role in the show, and isn’t that a great title for a lady — Dame? It’s English, you know.

A Word about Solicitors and Scams

Here at Visiting Anglophiles we are ever on the alert to protect your elder from uninvited solicitors and phone scammers. These unscrupulous dealers may want to sell your mother or father a security system or an emergency call button that is quite unneeded. At Visiting Anglophiles, we believe in having an Anglophile on the scene before any emergency occurs, in particular an Anglophile who is licensed to offer your parent the complete box set of Downton Abbey DVDs — that’s eight full seasons — in case her local TV provider doesn’t subscribe to the broadcast. These beautifully packaged discs are ready to be shipped to America for the low price of $59.95 per season, shipping extra. Yes, we accept dollars!

A Word about Sex after 75

Visiting Anglophiles is pleased to sponsor a nine-day bus tour of England, beginning in England’s capital. From an open-top bus, your mum or dad will view all the famous sites in London, and then it’s off for golfing on the coast, a castle sleepover, a pub crawl, and those big stones at Stonehenge. Here at Visiting Anglophiles we can arrange for even the most enfeebled American tourist and her breathing apparatus to enjoy this exciting trip. The climax of the journey? Undoubtedly the night at Stratford-upon-Avon, where a naughty few will choose to see our special live production of Anne Hathaway’s Cottage: After Hours, for very adults only.

A Reminder about Dementia

Nothing is more tragic than your parent forgetting the names of those nearest and dearest to him or her, or that Henry the Fifth was also called Hal, or misplacing her passport and credit card when packing for our nine-day bus tour. A Visiting Anglophile will be present every step of the way to be sure that these oversights don’t throw a spanner into Mom or Dad’s well-deserved vacation.

A Final Word about Sex after 75

We don’t know what Anne Hathaway looked like, but as the wife of William Shakespeare, the world’s greatest playwright, she must have had a tidy pair of ankles and a pert bosom, at the very least. We can say with assurance that a man like Shakespeare, with his intimate knowledge of Cleopatra and Juliet, would have settled for nothing less. The mere thought of Anne Hathaway’s cottage and its contents, especially the “second best bed” mentioned in Shakespeare’s will, is arousing to many seniors. They love to speculate about what went on in that bed when the playwright was in town, and also when he wasn’t, until Anne died in 1623, likely from the plague.

Our special DVD, Anne Hathaway’s Cottage: After Hours, filmed on location right in Mrs. Shakespeare’s cottage by Visiting Anglophiles Productions, is now available for $49.95, shipping extra. Note: Be sure to specify the After Hours edition, or you may receive the scholastic version of Anne Hathaway’s Cottage that we send to libraries in Iowa. We want you to receive the titillating film we made with very adults in mind.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where solving little family squabbles is sort of a sideline for us. And for Michael Fowler. Incidentally, this week marks the first half of what we like to call Michael Fowler Fortnight. Come back next week for another dose of Mr. Fowler. When you've finished reading his latest piece, do check our blogroll on the right for a link to his book, God Made the Animals.

The cruel document I received in the mail that supposedly is Mom’s final will has my head in a spin, and I’m sending this note to the two of you to let you know how cheated I feel. I’d phone or come around in person, except as you know my jail time for expectorating in a government building after repeated warnings lasts another two weeks. I do thank you and your pals at probate court for keeping me in the loop Momwise, but hear me out.

I understand Mark is the executor. Mom always doted on her legitimate son much more than on me, and on Mark more than Tina, and the dad you guys shared was the one stud our old slut of a mother had a financially rewarding relationship with. Brendon had a job and a bank account, unlike my dad, who simply joined Mom for a margarita or two and then a wild night at the Green Roof Inn, Hour Rates, 59 years ago, back when she had a pulse.

Blood is thicker than margaritas, I get that, but don’t forget I’ve got as much of our mother’s DNA in my genome as either of you. And dealing me out of any appreciable inheritance is about as fair as the way Mom treated my dad Al at the end. I mean his end. You may recall she wouldn’t let him pitch his tent on her lawn when he turned up out of the blue a while back and then refused to tide him over during his extended battle with demon rum, forcing him to live under a bridge on I-75 South near Cincinnati. When they found him late in the summer, he was indistinguishable from road kill.

So now everyone wants to deny me all sustenance too? Are the sins of the father to be visited upon the son? Well, based on my impression of your dad, the aforementioned Brendon, our mother probably had more fun on the night she made me than in all the 20 years she had to put up with that insufferable stuffed shirt before his cancer made him even grimmer, and then dead. You know what he said to me once, at that grill-out I came to on their 19th anniversary or whenever the last time I saw you two together was? The one where I had to put up with those kids of Tina’s whose names I didn’t know and who obviously needed medication for behavioral issues, since they treated my Ford convertible like a latrine? Brendon-Boy handed me a beer, and then told me he’d once hired Al to paint his fence for 20 dollars, and to show his gratitude Dad stole his wristwatch. Then he got upset when I laughed and told him Dad never overlooked life’s freebies. What did he expect me to do, pay for the watch? It was one of those periods I wasn’t even working.

Well it looks like I’m paying for it now. Mark and Tina get the entire house and property and all Mom’s possessions per stirpes and in equal shares, as the will states in plain English, and if there’s any money left over after Mom’s bills and debts are satisfied, I get all of $100 cash and the lawnmower I sometimes used to mow Mom’s yard. I guess the idea is, I can go on mowing Mark’s grass while he continues to live there, as he has rent-free for the last five decades. Mark also gets my stepdad’s shotguns and cars, never mind that I don’t have a lethal weapon to my name, and my car is that same old convertible Tina’s kids threw up and peed in after eating and drinking too much crap all those years ago.

The final insult, of course, is that if and when Mark does sell the place, you two, my fine and fair-minded sibs, split the proceeds equally, and I’m left out in the cold. And I suppose you think that’s fair. True, Mark took care of Mom till the ugly end with adult diapers and awkward sponge baths and whatnot, never being man enough to move out and let the hospice care tend to the maternal relic. And Mom and I had always fought. She never forgave me the time I heaved a pound of frozen hamburger at her when she refused me a loan, and hit that precious porcelain bird she kept in her living room. Or the time I filled the house with thick smoke trying to burn that dead raccoon out of her chimney and sent her to the ER with coughing. After those fiascos, I pretty much left her alone.

But Tina ignored her as much as I did. You have to admit, Sister dear, you didn’t come within a mile of her if you could help it. You never took her shopping, never went out with her for a meal, because you were afraid she’d start fondling total strangers, the way she did in her final years, and smile too broadly at minorities. Yeah, Mark told me all. His gossip was the only payment I got for cutting the yard. And when you did show up, Sis, it was to borrow money from the old broad that you never paid back. At least she gave you a few bucks now and then, which she never did me, not without raking me over the coals first.

I know how you all felt about me, of course. If I had a dollar for every time I heard you guys repeat after Mom “Like father like son,” or for every time I blew a job interview because my breath caught on fire, I wouldn’t need the Roth IRA I don’t own. But come on. I’m still your brother, your half-brother, anyway. And I’m not asking for you to split the sale of the property with me when Mark unloads it. Likely it’ll fetch a cool hundred and fifty too, it’s a nice location, and that figure is wonderfully divisible by three. But never mind, it’s all yours.

Here’s the deal. On the day I’m discharged from the justice center, greet me with a hundred bucks each on top of my hundred from the estate, and we’ll call it square. With three hundred my heap and I can make it down to Florida, where I can fish and live in a thong. And if that plan seems sketchy for a man pushing 60, and my bleached bones wash up on the shore in about a month, you don’t need to move a muscle to identify me, the way I had to go and identify my dad’s tanned, trim and lifeless corpse. Like him, I’ll be too dead to care. One way or the other you’ll never hear from me again.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where not every house invasion is a home invasion, if that makes sense. If it doesn't, blame Barton Aronson, whose ability to turn a monologue into a dialogue is unmatched in our view.

Honey? Are you awake? Honey? Do you hear that? Do you — really? For ten minutes? Huh. That long? Huh.

It sounds like the door. It sounds like someone’s trying to jimmy the lock. I wonder why they call it that — “jimmy.” We should Google that.

There it is again. No, it’s not your brother. No, he doesn’t have a key. Yes, I know you told me to give him a key. When he returns my skimboard and promises to stop “borrowing” money out of your purse, I will give him a goddamn key. He owes us, like, two hundred dollars.

It doesn’t sound like a key. It keeps going in and out. What do they call that? Got it — burglarious tools. No, I am not making it up. It’s a thing. Burglarious tools. You can Google it. Burglarious tools. Stop what? That’s ridiculous — I’m not repeating it because I like saying “burglarious.” You’re ridiculous.

Christ, I think it’s opening. Where’s the alarm? Why isn’t the alarm going off? Oh, right – we canceled the alarm. Okay, we didn’t pay the alarm bill. Okay, okay, I didn’t pay the alarm bill. Fine! I forgot to pay the alarm bill. There. I took responsibility. Happy now?

Okay, it’s okay – Toby’s going downstairs. Good boy, Toby! Get him, boy! Kill! Get — wait, is that — kibble? Is that the dog we rescued from certain death having a snack? Oh, great. Good to know our man-eating Rottweiler can be bought for a scoop of kibble. Good to know, Toby!

We need to call 911. Where’s my phone? Where’s — oh, right. I forgot. Someone decreed we couldn’t have phones in the bedroom. Someone decided we’d communicate more and sleep better and awaken more refreshed. Great — we’ll be refreshed when we describe our stolen crap to the cops.

Jesus, was that the window? Why break the window if he’s already — never mind. I said never mind. Yes, yes, it’s the wine glasses, not the window. No, I did not load the dishwasher. I said I’d do it in the morning. Yes, I know your folks are coming for brunch. I was going to do it in the morning. I didn’t think I needed to tidy up for tonight’s home invasion.

Okay, enough of this. I’m getting the shotgun. Once this idiot hears me rack that bitch he’s gonna — oh, right. I can’t rack it, because I don’t have it, because the police still haven’t issued me my permit. What? Well, it feels like a pretty high priority right now, doesn’t it? Did I mention how happy I am we moved to Boston for a job you already hate? Cradle of the revolution, my ass.

Honey, where are you going? What’re you — honey, wait. It took me six hours to hang the T.V., you can’t just rip it off the wall! You can’t — WHOA. Okay. Settle down. Honey? Where are you going? Honey?

Jesus Christ that was loud! You had to throw it down the stairs? That thing cost eighteen hundred bucks! You couldn’t just — wave it at him? I don’t know. Wait — is that the door closing? He’s gone? Oh, my God. Thank God. Thank God. Honey, that was awesome. You sounded really scary. I mean, I couldn’t really hear you from under the pillow, but for a second there, I swear — you sounded exactly like your mom.